It's Still The Same Old Story
by On-the-right-road
Summary: Essentially: a series of Turnadette drabble pieces exploring the past, present and future lives of Shelagh, Patrick & Timothy Turner (with occasional appearances from Grace Turner and other, more familiar characters). Set in the same universe as my 'A Kiss Is Just A Kiss' story (though prior knowledge of that fic isn't necessary to read these. Unless you want to of course!)
1. Chapter 1

**This is the first in an occasional series of chapters set in the same universe as 'A Kiss Is Just A Kiss'; essentially Turnadette drabble pieces which will jump around in time and place.**

**Dedication: Thanks to Amber for your editing, encouragement & endless enthusiasm and to Kathryn for providing the inspiration to keep writing.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, property of Neal Street Productions, Heidi Thomas, the BBC yada, yada, yada. :-)**

**Summary: I like to think of this first one as a prelude to "Please will you marry my Dad?" (surely one of the sweetest proposals in TV history?!)**

**Anyway, enjoy!**

It has been almost a week since his Dad had surprised Timothy Turner by behaving with the utmost uncharacteristic urgency; deserting his duty, taking off into the ether - seemingly in search of the ethereal, driving out of Poplar, past ships and slums and steam-shrouded factories, through strange streets and suburbs, until they had found themselves wreathed in a cool, damp cocoon of white fog in the midst of unaccustomed greenery.

"I'm not going on my rounds," his father had declared as they set off, his voice tight with determination and taut with an emotion which Timothy couldn't place.

He had been scarcely less communicative as they travelled, his eyes fixed on the road ahead and his vision focused on some distant horizon just out of reach beyond the descending mist. Timothy had learned - with an eager exclamation of happiness and excitement - that Sister Bernadette had been discharged from the Sanatorium, that they were on a trip to pick her up, to bring her home. Questions as to why they were driving so fast, where they were meeting her, why his Dad had abandoned his rounds so suddenly, all were met with either silence or scant one or two word answers.

His spirits had not been dampened, however. Since the loss of his mother he had become accustomed to the occasional quirks of his father's character which could sometimes manifest themselves in incidents of chip-snatching urgency or silent, sombre introspection. He had taken it upon himself to be his father's lookout, leaning out of the car window like an eager young bloodhound, revelling in the cool air rushing over his face, ruffling his hair. His offer to call out to her should they finally come upon her was, however, firmly rebuffed. "No! Leave the talking to me!" his father had insisted, brooking no disagreement.

They had slowed down at the Sanatorium entrance, his father desperately scanning the surrounding roadside, and then sped up when no sign was to be seen of a solitary waiting figure. Timothy could see his father's knuckles turning white where they gripped the steering wheel, leaning in even further towards it as he peered urgently through the windscreen at the clouded road ahead.

And then, after miles more of blurring greenery and white nothingness, he thought he spied a figure up ahead, a small female form balanced by a suitcase in either hand but, puzzlingly, bereft of the billowing habit which his subconscious mind was seeking. He had alerted his father, whose head had stopped bobbing in earnest endeavour as he too focused on the approaching vision. He had felt the car slow down to a crawl, had heard the harsh drawn-out exhalation of breath as his father seemed to release the tension in his hands, in his posture, in his face. His eyes though, Timothy noticed, his eyes were fixed straight ahead, glinting and glittering. He had applied the handbrake and turned off the ignition without his gaze once leaving the woman who stood transfixed in it several yards ahead. Timothy could see now that it _was_ Sister Bernadette, but somehow a younger, smaller version of the nun who had offered him much-needed comfort, kindness and friendship after his mother had died.

She had turned back towards them when she heard the purr of the car's engine approaching. And then she had stopped, still as a statue and silently staring as they slowly drew nearer. She had set down her suitcases carefully, her mouth slightly open, her breath noticeably puffing in the misty air. Timothy had wanted to wave to her or to throw open the car door and to run towards her, but something in the atmosphere stopped him. She did not seem to see him anyway. Her eyes were just as focused as his father's.

Timothy was watching her with curiosity as he heard the car door slam and then he turned his attention to his father, who broke into a half-run as he hurried to her. There seemed to be a moment's hesitation as she tilted her head up to look at him, and then her shoulders sagged and her eyes slipped closed with relief as he tentatively - tenderly - rested a palm on her forehead. Timothy had looked on as his father chivalrously shrugged off his coat, shrouding it around Sister Bernadette like a cloak, while she noticeably shivered at his touch.

Unable to hear even the merest whisper of conversation, he could nevertheless tell by the earnestness of her expression that something important was transpiring, something he supposed which would explain why she was now wearing the wrong clothes. He would have to ask his father for an explanation but he would have to pick his moment carefully. Previous questions - about her recovery, about her possible return, about the picture she had painted for him - had often been met with with short shrift or saddened sighs.

He watched as they stood facing each other, saw a shy smile finally break out on her face, deepening as his father stroked a hand down the dangling sleeve of his coat to gently squeeze her elbow beneath it. She looked down fondly as he bent over to pick up her suitcases and then began walking towards the car ahead of him, his coat still firmly clasped at her neck. She finally caught Timothy's eager and expectant gaze as she approached, and she broke into a grin, freeing her arm to wave at him and prompting the same gestures from him in return. Freed from his reluctant restraint, Timothy had run to meet her, greeting her with a swiftly instinctive hug and then pulling away in slightly self conscious embarrassment.

"Hello, Sister Bernadette! I'm glad you're better."

His father had approached them then, before she could answer with anything more than a beaming smile of gratitude and a heartfelt "Thank you, Timothy."

"It's not Sister Bernadette any more, Timothy. Sister is called Shelagh now. She's no longer a nun."

Seeing the supplementary questions forming on his son's lips, Patrick had nodded to the car and instructed him to climb into the back seat. "I'll explain more about it another time. Right now we need to get Shelagh out of this damp air and back to Poplar."

Suitcases safely stowed in the boot, the return journey had been happily filled with Timothy's excited chatter about the wonder cure effected by the Sanatorium, about how the doctors there differed from his Dad, about how many species of butterflies might inhabit the surrounding grounds. The adults had listened indulgently for the most part, Shelagh elaborating on a few of his points of conjecture but his father remaining largely silent, a serene smile now gracing his features. On one or two occasions he had turned it towards Shelagh and it's wattage had been amplified and returned a hundred-fold in an unspoken exchange which Timothy could not decipher.

He had again remained in the car when they had arrived back at Nonnatus House, restrained by an instinctive feeling that it was not merely Sister Bernadette's status which had changed. He sensed that something had shifted within his father too, that frown lines had been smoothed, burdens lifted, troubles eased. It was only when Patrick had retrieved Shelagh's suitcases from the boot, had reclaimed his coat from her grateful grasp and had returned her to the front door of the convent that Timothy had caught a glimpse of what he thought might be the catalyst for all this change. He had watched in stilled, silent surprise as his father leaned down and gently brushed his lips over the former nun's cheek in a lingering gesture of affection, one which caused her eyes to flutter shut in avowed appreciation.

The thoughts of what he had seen and what it might mean have swirled through Timothy's mind for the past several days. It is not a subject he feels able to broach with his father. Since the loss of his mother, their sensitivities to each other's suffering had seen them struggle to speak of their emotions. Timothy's most recent attempt had come on a rainy evening after Cubs, when he had interrupted a sombre brooding silence to ask his Dad if he was feeling sad. The enquiry had been rebuffed with a smooth statement of father-son affection and washed down with a portion of fried bread. Timothy hadn't been convinced, but the bribery offered in both fondness and food had been sufficient to distract him from any further questions. In the past week his father's preoccupation has been no less pronounced, though frequently it has manifested itself in secret smiles which have only added to Timothy's growing suspicions.

Shelagh too has seemed somewhat remote to him; in spite of her closer proximity she appears to have been relieved not just of her habit but also of her occasional role as Timothy's confidante. As Sister Bernadette she had been the one person he could turn to for counsel when perplexed by his father's behaviour; as Shelagh she is as sunny and as sweet as Timothy has ever known her, yet still somehow different. In the serene set of her smile, in the sheer delight she takes in his and his father's company - in the suppers they have shared - there has been something intangibly, intrinsically altered. He senses that the two adults have come to an understanding which involves her new status but which also touches on him in some way, one which they have yet to share with him.

Now, after a fish and chip supper and a stroll along the canal to accompany Shelagh back to Nonnatus House, father and son are settled at the kitchen table, one ostensibly perusing his notes, the other practising his handwriting.

Timothy hears Patrick clear his throat twice and looks up to find himself met with a painfully awkward smile. His father's thumb and forefinger are rubbing together in an unconscious tic which he has long since come to recognise. He gazes back expectantly, wondering what it is that has his father so on edge.

"Timothy, can you leave that for a moment? I need to talk to you about something important. To ask you something." Timothy nods hesitantly and sets his pencil down.

Automatically his mind immediately begins to scan his memory banks for anything he might have said or done at school, an act which might have got him into trouble and which he might now be expected to confess to or apologise for. Almost as quickly his mind draws a blank and he breathes a quiet sigh of relief to himself.

"Your handwriting is very neat," comes the unexpected non-sequitur. Surprised by the compliment he glances down at the paper in front of him.

"Thank you," he says uncertainly.

Another throat-clearing cough is followed by Patrick clasping his hands in front of him, resting them on the table and starting to twirl his thumbs. He focuses on them with a slight frown as a silence stretches out uncomfortably.

His son regards him with mounting curiosity. He has never seen his Dad quite so nervous during a conversation and it transmits itself to him in the form of an inherited fidgetiness. He sits on his hands to still them and waits for Patrick to continue.

In short order his father gathers his thoughts and addresses him: "Timothy, you know Mummy loved you very much, don't you?" he asks in another unexpected aside.

It is not a question which requires much deliberation: "Yes. She told me she'd always love me, even if she wasn't here to say it any more..."

Sudden tears spring to his eyes at the memory and Patrick instinctively draws the boy into his shoulder, placing a kiss on the top of his head.

"Yes," he murmurs. "That's right. She does. She will."

Timothy straightens up and sniffs back the threatening tears. He has learned how to suppress them by dint of practice and necessity. Patrick releases him and regards him seriously.

"It was hard on both of us when Mummy died. I know that you still miss her. I know I haven't been able to do all the things she did for you..."

"Like cook proper meals!" he hears Timothy mutter under his breath.

"But I've always wanted what's best for you," he continues gently. "You know how I've always wanted you to learn to be independent, because..."

"Because I never know when I might be on my own," Timothy finishes, having heard the mantra enough times to have become inured to its painful insinuations.

"Quite." It is a mantra which has cut Patrick to the quick to deliver, the thought that his beautiful, brave little boy might have to suffer any further loss in his young life. But it is one which he has felt honour-bound to instil, in the hope that Timothy would prove as resilient as he had once been advised that children can be, should the very worst come to pass. The thought of that advice - and of the advisor who gave it - brings home to him the magnitude of the question he is about to ask.

He pauses and casts his eyes heavenwards as if seeking approval from on high to continue. He turns in his chair and faces Timothy fully.

"Timothy, I don't want you to have to worry about being on your own. And I want you to know that Mummy will always love you and that I will always love your Mummy, no matter what happens."

The boy looks back at him with wary incomprehension. "What do you mean 'no matter what happens'?" he says suspiciously. "What's going to happen?"

Patrick blows out a breath. "That depends on you Timothy." He steels himself, lowering his voice, trying to soften the impact his next words might have:

"I want to get married again. And I want to have your blessing before I ask..."

The way his father is eyeing him - with earnest, anxious expectation - reminds Timothy of the last cryptic words he had heard him say to their supper companion earlier that evening: "The kitchen at noon then. I have something rather important I want to say. If the fates allow that is..."

"Sister Bernadette?" the boy whispers, eyes wide, heart racing, shifting suspicions starting to come into focus.

"Yes, Sister Bernadette - Shelagh. I want to ask her to marry me," Patrick reiterates with quiet certitude, laying down the final piece in the jigsaw which could make a broken family whole again. "I want to ask her to be my wife, to live with us. To become your step-mum."

"Do you love her Dad?" A solemn tone belies the ardent nature of the enquiry.

"Yes. Very, very much."

"And she loves you?" asked with fervent urgency.

"It would appear so," Patrick answers with adroit understatement. Nevertheless he can't quite disguise the wonder and joy which wells up in him at speaking those words aloud, though he tries to reign in his feelings until he is certain of his son's reaction.

He holds his breath as he watches Timothy intently. With what seems like agonising deliberation, he sees the understanding - of the proposition and of its implications - begin to register on the young boy's face; his lips start to curve upwards even as his eyes are glistening with emotion; he opens his mouth as if to speak but no words emerge. And then, in sudden and unanticipated excitement, he throws himself into Patrick's arms and all but sobs his happiness and relief into his father's neck, two faces now wreathed in smiles, two sets of shoulders beginning to shake with joyful laughter.

"I take it you're happy about the idea then?" Patrick teases his son.

Guileless and giddy, Timothy ignores the playful jibe and answers with ebullient and boyish enthusiasm: "It's brilliant Dad! I love Sist...Shelagh! She's so kind and funny. She helps me with stuff, like my Scout badges and my music and things." The prospect of having her helpfulness, her happy, smiling face close at hand - let alone under the same roof - feels like the greatest gift Timothy has received since he can remember, even more exciting than the time he was given his first bicycle on his fifth birthday.

"Why didn't you do it tonight? When are you going to ask her?" he enquires impatiently.

"Tomorrow, Son, tomorrow." Patrick smiles wistfully and slips his hand into his pocket, producing a small leather box which he flips open, revealing its contents to Timothy. A delicate gold band set with a solitary sparkling stone nestles inside.

"Do you think she'll like it?" His father's face is fixed on the ring, anxiety now colouring his voice and creasing his forehead. His thoughts have turned to the next day, to how exactly he is going to find the right words, not only to ask her for her hand but also to convey how much is riding on her answer; his hope, his heart, his happiness - his entire existence he feels. He doesn't even know if he has the words - should they actually exist - to encompass all the emotions she stirs in him.

He is drawn out of his reverie by Timothy's astute assessment of the ring: "It's very pretty. It suits her."

Patrick can only nod happily, ruffling his son's hair in agreement and affection.

A thought strikes Timothy and he gives it voice without further consideration: "Could I give it to her?" he pleads eagerly, innocently. "I love giving presents."

He hears his father chuckle and his face starts to fall as he realises the implausibility of his suggestion. He answers his own question, slightly annoyed at his own naivety and just a little ashamed that he should try to appropriate his father's gift: "No, of course I can't. It's not from me, is it?"

Seeing the recrimination on the boy's face, Patrick seeks to soften the blow:

"It is in a way though, Son. I want to ask Shelagh to be my wife but I'm also asking her to be your new Mum. So it is from both of us in that respect."

Slightly mollified, a shy smile spreads across Timothy's features, another idea forming.

"Could I wrap it for her then, Dad?"

"I wasn't going to wrap it," Patrick responds, clearly dubious about the necessity for any such subterfuge. That is, until his doubts are allayed by Timothy's excited explanation of what he has in mind - of how exactly he would like to contribute to Shelagh's gift and to share in his father's quest.

"That would be perfect," Patrick murmurs in a hushed tone, choked with admiration and awe at the beautiful simplicity of his son's proposal. "Absolutely perfect."

He kneels down in front of him, the gravity of his expression causing Timothy's beaming smile to falter somewhat. Fixing him with an earnest gaze, Patrick reaches out to cup his son's cheek briefly before beginning to speak:

"Timothy, you are a very special little boy. I know you and I have had to muddle through these past two years and that I haven't always spent enough time with you. But I want you to know that I'm proud of you." He reaches out and gently takes hold of the boy's upper arms, drawing him closer, dropping his voice. "I'm so very proud that you're my son. I promise things will get better. It's going to be so good, all of us together, you and I and Shelagh. The three of us, we're going to be a very happy family one day soon, I promise. OK?"

A solemn nod is all it takes to prompt a follow-up hug, before they each release the other, each then seeking to regain their ruffled composure.

And so it comes to pass that the last task father and son undertake that evening before bed is to tie a simple blue ribbon around the carefully crafted message which Timothy has composed for his mother-to-be, encasing the heartfelt gift from both which they know will soon signify a bright and beautiful new beginning for their family...

**Please review if you have the time! :-)**


	2. The Morning after the Night before Xmas

**'Twas the Morning after the Night before Christmas...**

_This is a short scene which is set after Shelagh & Patrick's Christmas Eve wedding. Disclaimer: Characters not mine, borrowed with thanks from Heidi Thomas and Neal St Productions. I promise to return them in good condition...  
_

It was an irritatingly persistent tickling at her ear which began to gradually rouse Shelagh from a deep and contented sleep on Christmas morning. The next intrusion on her slowly-stirring consciousness was an awareness of skin on skin, the feeling of a warm protective cocoon provided by a solid chest pressed to her back and strong forearms draped loosely around her waist. Her mind processed these sensations sleepily, puzzling over them, swimming towards a dawning understanding in the dim light of the unfamiliar room.

The tickling sensation resolved itself into gentle breaths puffing into the shell of her ear and her brain was suddenly flooded with a kaleidoscope of memories, a smile forming on her lips even before her eyelids began to flutter open; she saw Patrick turning to watch her as she proceeded steadily down the aisle, her vision misted by the veil floating down from her crown but the emotions on his face clear and unmistakable: Adoration. Joy. Awe. Certainty. Love. She heard the tremor in her voice as she recited her vows quietly, aware all the while of his eyes brimming with wonder. She felt herself stretching up on tiptoe to kiss him as they stood on the steps of the church, confetti swirling like snowflakes around them, cheers chiming in their ears. She relived the giddy, giggling joy of being swept up into his arms and carried over the threshold of this very house several hours later. And she flushed as sights and sensations and sounds from the night before flashed through her thoughts; her first experience of being loved - and so completely, so thoroughly, so adoringly that tears had flowed, which he had then tenderly kissed away.

She lay her hands on top of his arms and fondly stroked her fingers through the downy hair there, noticing that his hold on her tightened almost imperceptibly as she did so. She turned her head slightly, causing his lips to graze down across her jawline. He stirred a little and she found herself gazing at the face which had become so dear and so familiar and yet still such a source of wonder to her: the weathered brow now somewhat smoothed by sleep, the laughter lines crinkling the corners of his eyes, the fullness of his slightly parted lips. Impulsively she twisted further in his embrace and pressed her mouth gently to his until she felt him begin to respond. His arms definitely tightened around her this time, stroking round from her waist to her back as he pressed his mouth more firmly to hers, moaning softly into it and drawing her closer, deepening the kiss. Only when she felt his hands start to roam further afield did she pull back, blinking her eyes open to meet the warm brown hue of his own, smiling lovingly at her.

"Patrick," she greeted in a hushed whisper, joy bubbling up through her at the sight of him, and at the pure, boundless happiness she saw reflected back at her.

"Good morning, Mrs Turner. Do you think perhaps you could wake me up like that for the rest of my life?" he asked with an impish grin. He raised a hand to brush it gently through her hair, sweeping it back and continuing round to draw a caress across her cheek.

"Because I could get used to it. Definitely."

She beamed in delight and pressed another kiss upon him, murmuring: "So could I."

This time he caught her before she could pull away. "Stay," he whispered against her lips. "Do that again?"

She found herself completely unable to resist his request, sinking back into him, helpless with love and longing. Their mouths moved together time and again in perfect synchronicity, meeting and parting and joining anew. His hands stroked through her hair, hers threading through his with equal care. Through the haze of feeling she was aware that these weren't the fierce, fervent kisses of the previous night, which had been so ripe with passion and promise. These sweet, tender exchanges, she realised - though equally delicious - held a different promise, one of constancy and devotion and fulfilment. A lifetime of so many different promises stretched before them and she felt every one affirmed in turn with each tender touch of his lips to hers.

Finally he rolled them both over so they were side by side, face to face. His hands slipped back around her waist, his thumbs drawing lazy circles upon the soft flesh there.

She shivered at his touch and he caught it immediately, a look of concern flitting across his face.

"Are you cold? Did you want to put something on? Your nightdress perhaps? I don't want you..."

His worries were silenced by a gentle sweep of her fore finger across his lips and an amused admonition:

"Shhh, Doctor Turner. You worry too much. I'm perfectly fine."

Nevertheless he drew the covers up further and drew her closer into his arms, nuzzling his face into her hair, mumbling his acceptance.

"Perfectly fine," he heard her sigh as she in turn buried her face against his neck. Her breath puffed against his throat, as warm and soft as her body cradled against his. He couldn't help but sweep his hands up her back, smoothing them along her shoulders, drawing his fingers down the length of her arms, marvelling at the silkiness of her skin, drawing out another sigh of breath against his neck.

She pulled back to look at him then, and he sensed that there were words on her lips which were being silenced by the hesitancy he could read in her expression.

"What is it?" he prompted quietly.

She tangled her fingers through his and raised their joined hands to rest between them, focusing her gaze there as she began to speak:

"I always thought I might be shy with you. That I might feel uncomfortable and exposed being naked with you."

She was stroking her thumb rhythmically over the back of his hand and he glanced down to watch as she moved it slowly back and forth, finding comfort in the gesture as she continued:

"But I don't feel that way at all. I feel safe and warm and loved." She smiled softly to herself.

Her thumb shifted then and she drew it reverently over their entwined ring fingers.

"I don't know how I ever imagined it could be otherwise..." She looked up and he saw naked devotion in her eyes. "I can't feel uncomfortable or exposed if I'm wearing your ring - there's nothing to fear or to feel shy about." She punctuated her next sentence by dropping kisses on to his wedding ring and hers in turn: "I'm your wife now; yours in body, heart, mind and soul. And I love you." A look of divine contentment shone from her eyes, its intensity arcing to fill the space between them.

"Shelagh," he sighed. "_Oh, Shelagh_." Beyond that he could not seem to form any words, but his eyes told her everything and she reached out to cup his cheek.

"I know, Patrick. Darling, I know," she soothed, though her eyelids slipped closed as she swallowed back a wave of emotion which threatened to submerge her, to engulf both of them.

"I love you so much. Happy Christmas, my love," she heard him declare before he swept her into a fierce, ardent embrace.

Still clinging tightly to each other, it was Shelagh who first registered the distant trill of the telephone from the hallway, though it was Patrick who was first to react.

She heard him groan into her hair before he reluctantly rolled away to reach for his pyjamas, folded neatly on a nearby chair.

"It'll be about Timothy," she reminded him, glancing at the bedside clock which already read twenty-five past nine. "Jack's Mum did say they'd try to have him back home by 10 o'clock."

"You're lucky," he told her ruefully. "Last year he was in here at quarter past eight to show me what he'd got in his Christmas stocking."

"Aye, no doubt he'll be eager to open his presents." She was secretly as thrilled as Timothy at the prospect of them unwrapping the neat pile of gifts stacked under the waiting tree downstairs.

"Stay here. Rest," Patrick instructed fondly, dipping down to press a kiss to her cheek. As he padded to the door she snuggled back down beneath the covers, closing her eyes and sinking into the bed, revelling in the feeling of being cocooned in his scent.

She was only dimly aware of the distant murmur of his voice on the phone and was therefore surprised to feel the bed dip down beside her a few minutes later as he slipped back under the covers.

Her eyes opened wide as his arms snaked round her waist and she felt herself nestled against his bare chest once more.

"Patrick?" she asked in confusion, turning to see his pyjamas now carelessly discarded on the chair and an unmistakeable glint in his eye.

"That was Jack's father. Apparently the boys are having such a rare old time playing with Jack's new chemistry set that Timothy has asked if he can stay until noon. He says he's happy to open his presents after lunch. Jack's Dad wanted to know if it would ruin our plans for the day."

He grinned wolfishly at her and began to trail kisses along the top of her shoulder – "I told him," – more kisses up her neck – "that it would be OK," – his lips traced the outline of her jaw – "as long as," – a kiss to the corner of her mouth - "my wife didn't mind." His face was hovering above hers now, his breath quickening, need flecking the depths of his eyes. "You don't mind if we change our plans do you?" he asked in a low voice, dark and dangerous with desire.

She locked her gaze with his, her tongue inadvertently darting out to lick her lips. He had his answer.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs Turner," he whispered before closing his mouth over hers.

And then all sense of time and occasion was lost as they were engulfed and embraced once again in love, in warmth, in comfort and in joy….

THE END

**_A Merry Christmas to one and all!_**

**_Reviews are gifts which would be gratefully received._**


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